


Yours

by demonessryu



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Banter, Denial of Feelings, Getting Together, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Roger's pride is so massive it's got its own gravitational pull, Secret Crush, Sharing Clothes, but everybody but especially Brian loves him anyway, of sort, the author sucks at coming up with titles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-20 01:40:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19983943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demonessryu/pseuds/demonessryu
Summary: Roger just wanted Brian to look cool, but Brian had other ideas about what he wore and why. Roger realized he didn’t mind Brian’s sense of fashion after all.





	Yours

**Author's Note:**

> It's 26 July which means it's Roger's birthday! I actually didn't plan to post anything this week because I have quite a lot of things on my plate, but it's his birthday. I kinda have to post something. Anyway. There’s a quote (by their former bassist?) about Brian showing up to a gig in boring clothes so Roger brought him back to his flat to dress him up but could only find a vest that could fit him. I find it hilarious and cute and, well, inspiration, for better or worse, struck. Beware of sentences that run longer than Brian’s guitar solo (but are sadly not half as cool).

“We _really_ should take you shopping some time.”

Brian stood by the door of Roger’s room, watching him tear through his closet for something Brian could wear for their gig–which was to start in less than an hour! Roger keenly felt every passing second–every _precious_ second–that could be used getting ready for the performance rather than dressing Brian up if only Brian hadn’t decided to arrive at the venue in plain white shirt and grey trousers. He had insisted that he looked perfectly fine and people wouldn’t pay much attention to what he was wearing when Freddie was prancing about the stage in outfit and makeup designed to draw the attention from everyone with working eyes in the building. Well, Roger completely disagreed with him (as usual). He knew Brian had more than his fair share of admirers, many of whom came to their gigs with the specific purpose of staring at him, screaming his name, and even propositioning him at the end of the night. People paid attention to Brian, even if Brian didn’t seem to notice them much when he was absorbed in giving the perfect guitar performance, and Roger simply couldn’t let them see Brian dressed like the math teacher he was. So, Roger had dragged Brian into his van and driven him to his flat for an emergency fashion intervention, trusting Freddie and John (but mostly John) to get the stage, instruments and equipment ready while they were gone.

“I have enough clothes,” Brian argued mildly. “And not enough money,” he added. It was a good point, if not for the fact that they were also standing in Roger’s bedroom, surrounded by heaps of his clothes, all of which were cooler than anything Brian owned. Brian seemed to realize he wouldn’t win the argument this way and changed track. “My students think I’m kind of cool,” he said, sounding a little proud of himself.

Roger rolled his eyes. “Your competitors are three times your age, probably wrinkled as a prune, and have less than half of your hair. Of course your students think you’re cool.”

Brian blinked, as if he hadn’t considered this before. Perhaps he hadn’t. He wasn’t the sort to care much for appearances, whether his own or others’. He had been self-conscious, or so Roger had heard, about his hair, but he had gotten over it. Since Roger knew him, he had started to let his hair grow and forego oil to tame it. It was a good decision, if Roger said so himself. He liked the look of Brian’s hair, how it framed Brian’s lean face and gave him some volume that their financial situation wouldn’t allow. If Roger were honest with himself, Brian was quite cool–effortlessly and distractingly so. It wasn’t just the hair and the height, which of course absolutely helped as Roger could testify from his position behind the drums. It was also the way he brought himself, the absentmindedness that could be easily mistaken (as Roger had briefly mistaken on their early meetings) as cool indifference. People looked at him and admired him. Roger looked at him and admired him, although he wouldn’t say that out loud even at the pain of death.

There was little to admire in Brian’s current outfit, though. It frustrated Roger because he _knew_ Brian could look so much better than this if he would just put in a little more effort. He rarely did. This wasn’t their first emergency fashion intervention. Roger had lost count of the times he risked tickets to put Brian in something that would do his looks justice. Sometimes the efforts weren’t even worth the result. Their difference in size severely limited the clothes Roger could lend him. Brian had worn all of Roger’s vests and scarves at least twice, and some of his shirts and jackets once. Roger would like to see him in something else, something that would draw attention in the right ways, that would garner the admiration Brian rightly deserved, and most importantly, that was in line with the spirit of rock ‘n’ roll.

Roger glanced at Brian and found him staring at his feet, probably bored of waiting but too polite to tell Roger so. Not liking that he had lost Brian’s interest, Roger grabbed a colorful jacket with large floral pattern embroidery that he had, uh, found on the way back from the pub a few nights ago. He held it up for Brian’s inspection. “What do you think about this?”

Brian looked up and very slightly but still visibly flinched. “Is there something less… adventurous?”

Roger took the nearest rainbow colored thing and held it up, eagerly waiting for Brian’s reaction. “This?”

“That’s not less adventurous,” he said placidly, his brows beginning to furrow.

“How about this one?” Roger asked with a smirk, showing him a shirt that would struggle to cover half of his torso.

Brian sighed, realizing that Roger was taking the piss. “I prefer something that would cover more than my nipples,” he retorted dryly.

Roger snorted and tossed the shirt away onto one of the heaps around him to be sorted at some point in the future. Roger’s fashion sense and Roger in general was far more “adventurous” than Brian was comfortable with. Brian never mentioned it, of course, being the perfect gentleman that he was, but Roger noticed the looks he gave him whenever he left their gig with a girl or two in tow or announced he was going out with his other friends or showed up to their gig in colorful outfit that suited the nickname people gave him. Brian disapproved of him and it really annoyed Roger sometimes that this bothered him. He didn’t care what people thought he should be or do. This was his life to live as he would, his dream and happiness for him to pursue. Everyone else’s opinions didn’t matter. But, he still wanted Brian to look at him and like what he was. He still wanted Brian to approve what he had made of himself. He still wanted Brian to give him that soft look he seemed to reserve only for the Red Special.

This wasn’t the time to angrily ponder on Brian’s role in his life or be envious of a guitar, however. Giving up on finding something of his that would fit Brian and Brian hadn’t worn before, Roger stood up. “Let’s check out Freddie’s clothes,” he announced. Freddie was the smallest of them, so it was highly unlikely that they would find anything for Brian, but Roger wasn’t willing to give up on his mission to make Brian look like a proper rock guitarist just yet.

“Um,” Brian started when Roger made for the door. “We don’t have to trouble Freddie,” he said when Roger looked at him with an arched eyebrow.

“Freddie’s fine with people borrowing his clothes. _I_ borrow his clothes all the time!” Roger assured him. He looked down at what he was wearing and squinted. “I think this jacket is his. I can’t tell anymore.”

“It’s his,” Brian said quietly, then cleared his throat. “Anyway, I’m fine with wearing what you have here.”

Roger frowned at the clothes strewn around them. “I don’t think so. You’ve worn them before. Can’t have people bored of what you wear.”

“I really don’t think they’d mind,” Brian insisted.

“They might!” Roger argued, firmly believing against repeating himself too often. Admitted he got bored very easily, but everyone did get bored, just at much more slower pace than him. Nothing wrong with being a couple of steps ahead of them.

“People don’t even look at me!”

Roger scowled at him, recalling past events where this was absolutely untrue. “The girl you brought home a couple of nights ago clearly did. She practically threw herself at you the second you step off the stage.”

Unable to argue with that point, Brian stammered. “Well, no one’s complained yet!” he tried again.

“We can’t wait for them to complain! We can’t keep giving same music, same performance, same looks. People will get bored! And you can’t possibly say you won’t be sick of wearing the same things all the time!” Roger argued, voice rising.

“I’ll not be sick of wearing your clothes. I mean.” Brian’s eyes widened and he faltered, the annoyance in his tone and eyes disappearing as quickly as they had appeared. In its place, now there was nervousness and a hint of fear as his skin turned ever so slightly crimson. “I mean I don’t mind wearing your clothes, but if you don’t have anything I can borrow, I’ll just wear this,” he said unconvincingly.

Roger stared at him and stared some more until Brian squirmed and tried to fold into himself–which was quite an impossible feat for someone with his height. This proved that Roger hadn’t just imagined his words. Brian really did say that he wouldn’t get bored of wearing his clothes which meant… What did it mean? A hope that Roger had always carefully not nurtured reared its head. Usually he stamped on it—viciously—with the reminder that it was always girls he and Brian brought home and that they mostly only got along when they were on stage, performing. It was a dream he didn’t want to entertain as it seemed more remote and unlikely than tremendous success and wild popularity. But, could it be that he had been wrong? Could it be that Brian had for him a sliver of affection he wouldn’t admit to yearn for? This time, Roger hesitated to squash the minute hope, but he was still wary. If he got this wrong, if things went wrong, he would lose too much and he couldn’t, no matter how he loathed admitting it, bear to lose Brian.

Roger wasn’t usually averse to risks, but there was too much at stake this time. Instead of facing the terrifying unknown, he took the familiar but cowardly path of argumentation. “Do you dress like this to piss me off and make me work hard to get you a change of clothes?”

“No! I think I look just fine!” Brian denied, a little flustered.

“You do if you’re going to teach your math class!”

Brian narrowed his eyes. “I think my students know what’s cool better than any of us do,” he said in defense of his students, which Roger probably shouldn’t find endearing but did.

Brian was always too kind for his own good. He wasn’t nurturing like Freddie was, but he cared in his own quiet way, always looking out for others around him, always there for them although he never said it out loud. There was an unfamiliar but welcomed flutter in Roger’s chest when he thought of how Brian was always there for him. Even at his most difficult, even when he attacked Brian out of misplaced anger, Brian never faltered. He always forgave, even before Roger was ready to apologize. He had seen the worst of Roger and somehow still wanted him around—Roger still didn’t understand why. He was unmoved, unmoving, and the thought of having Brian always by his side felt like the most right and natural thing in the world, just like drumming.

“And I run a clothing stall, so I know what’s really cool,” Roger argued, although fight was draining out of him. Brian seemed to feel it, too, because he said nothing in retaliation. Heart pounding in his chest, aching with hope he hadn’t dared to raise until this day, Roger ask, “you sure you don’t want to wear Freddie’s clothes?”

The look on Brian’s face was uncertain and more than a little worried. He took his time, hemming and hawing for a long time. He only stopped when Roger crossed his arms impatiently and scowled at him. “I’d rather not,” he said apprehensively.

That was the truth, Roger could tell. He did like seeing Brian wearing something that was his, but he had always tried not to examine beyond satisfaction of seeing that Brian didn’t dress boringly. The thought that Brian preferred his clothes to anyone else’s woke inside Roger a base and somewhat possessive feeling he always had when his past girlfriends wore something that was his. “I always thought you didn’t like my clothes,” he ventured not unkindly.

Brian’s mouth opened and closed a few times before he finally sighed and leaned back heavily against the wall. “I don’t hate them.” He looked around them at Roger’s clothes and while there was exasperation in his face, there was also an untold fondness that hit Roger like a punch to the gut. “They’re just so _you_. They’re not really for me–too colorful, too busy, not big enough. You–and Freddie–look glamorous in them, but I guess I’m just not cool enough. I do like wearing them, though,” he said—mused like he was recalling a dream and Roger didn’t dare to breathe for fear of bringing him back to cold lonely reality. “They make me think of you, make me think you’re with me, around me, and…” he stopped, high cheekbones painted red.

“And?” Roger prompted, greedy for more. More compliment, more confession, more of Brian. He had waited so long. He didn’t want to, but he had and now Brian was giving him everything he had never admitted he wanted.

Brian looked at him helplessly and nervously, but he must then see something in Roger’s face because he took a deep breath and gathered all his courage. “They make me feel I’m yours,” he declared.

Affection, awe, disbelief, lust and a myriad other things spread through Roger from his chest so quickly that he thought it must be how it felt to be struck by lightning. He felt a little out of breath, a little lightheaded, a not-so-little in love with Brian. It was something he hadn’t dared to dwell on, but definitely felt. It was in his viciously-crushed urge to drag Brain away when he got close to some girls. It was in his enjoyment of spending time with Brian. It was in those times he caught himself wishing he could kiss Brian’s cheek or hold his hand and ended up saying something mean instead. It was even in every fight they had when Roger wanted Brian to see him, like him, approve of him. It was in every second they spent together, always there, but unspoken.

Roger started to walk toward Brian, needing to close the distance that had persisted too long between them, but he suddenly remembered the time. He checked his watch and cursed. “Shit. We’ve got to go now,” he said urgently.

“Right,” Brian said, pushing himself away from the wall, a flicker of disappointment in his eyes that Roger really didn’t like.

Quickly, Roger scanned his clothes, picked a dark blue vest that was a little too small for Brian, and threw it to Brian, who deftly caught it from the air. “You’ll look good in that. We’ll continue this later,” he declared. Keeping in mind what Brian had said about what he felt when wearing his clothes, Roger took off Freddie’s jacket and threw it away. Then, to seal the promise, as he walked out of his room, he leaned up and kissed the corner of Brian’s mouth.

They weren’t late to the gig, which was good. Later that night, they continued their conversation and ended up with their fingers laced together as Roger leaned forward to press a soft kiss to Brian’s cheek, which was better. Many years later, they stood on a large stage in front of thousands and Brian had hanging on a necklace under his shirt a ring from Roger, which, Roger thought with a warm glow of satisfaction as the ring Brian had given him cooled his sweaty chest, was the best.

**Author's Note:**

> This is not a proper birthday fic, but this is all I can edit in between crying at my myriads of work (true story) and getting nightmares about my upcoming travel plan (also true story) and stressing out over things I have to write and edit (yet another true story). Happy birthday to my favorite hysterical queen, Roger fucking Taylor!
> 
> For now I can still be found on [tumblr](http://demonessryu.tumblr.com/) where my fanworks never show up on the proper tag(s).


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